


See No Evil

by scheherazade



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:46:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It never really goes away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	See No Evil

**Author's Note:**

> Originally wrote this as a quick email/chatfic for [acchikocchi](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi). I was put on this earth to do her bidding, and I accept my fate.

It never really goes away, the headache. Not completely. It comes back at odd hours, inconvenient moments, too little light or too much sound, paddling out on his surfboard into the sparkling Pacific or hiding from Michiko at a family gathering. 

In that respect, the headache and his bone-deep need to be back on the ice are one and the same.

It could be worse, people keep telling him. He doesn't disagree. It could be so, so much worse. It's all done and dusted anyway. He has his life now. It's not a bad life, not by any stretch of the imagination. It's just not what he _wants_ — and the question of "worse" is rather academic when his dreams are still filled with visions of hockey and teammates, and waking is filled with the long-passed realization that life might be full of possibilities, but this particular possibility can only belong to other people now.

Teemu gets it, almost. He won't ever fully understand — and not for one moment does Paul ever want him to get anywhere close to knowing — but Teemu listens and Teemu is there and Teemu looks at him with genuine care, not pity or judgment or that faint discomfort that always comes of trying too hard to reason away a wordless, senseless desire. Teemu takes him golfing and attempts (unsuccessfully) to keep up with him on the waves, and Paul laughs at him and buys him dinner and this, at least, stays the same.

It's still not what he wants, but at least it's the same.

 

* * *

 

“It’ll be cold," Paul points out when Teemu suggests that they go to Helsinki.

Teemu smiles at his protest. “It's not cold right now. We do get summers, you know." 

“Not like California."

“No. But California is not my home."

Paul drinks his iced tea. Teemu drinks his beer. The sun sinks toward the horizon, throwing long shadows over the patio and their legs stretched out on lazy reclining chairs.

“Okay," Paul says. “But only if you tell me why."

“I want to show you where I grew up."

“Unless it's actually a magical forest full of faeries and talking animals, I don't think I’ll learn much from your birthplace that actually explains anything about you."

“Fuck off," Teemu laughs, too fond. “I’m being serious here."

Paul smiles and looks away. “I like you better when you're joking."

“Why?"

He shrugs. “You laugh about everything, with everyone, and everyone loves you for it."

“And what about you?"

“What about me?"

Teemu doesn't answer that. What he does say is, “When you were saying earlier, about things being okay is not the same as having what you want — it's the same, acting like things are okay doesn't make okay into what you want."

The pause lingers for a second too long. “Okay?"

“Paul, please look at me."

Maybe it's the sun, haloed at the curved horizon, just a little too bright where it reflects on sea and sand. Maybe it's the loud silence. Maybe it's just the way his brain is now. When he does as asked, the headache doesn't hurt so much as disorient, but the look on Teemu's face is enough to make Paul want to close his eyes and stop seeing anything at all. 

“I am asking you this, and I really want you to say yes." Teemu reaches across the table, as if preparing to take his hand. “Come to Finland with me. I’m asking — not as a friend, just as me. Just for a while. And after that we can go where you want, stay in California, wherever."

Paul withdraws his hand from the table. “That's why you're asking?"

“That's why I’m asking."

“Then no." To his own ears the words are as distant as crying gulls. “I can't."

Teemu goes quiet. Paul shuts his eyes a moment and wills the headache to go away.

“I don't understand,” is what Teemu says next. “Why not?"

“Were you just expecting me to say yes?" Paul snaps.

“Kind of." Teemu sounds more quizzical than offended or upset. “Since you've been in love with me for years."

Paul blinks. “What?" Then, when the full meaning finally hits him, “You knew?" He stands up. “You knew. And you just carried on? You just decided that was fine and didn't even — I don't know, _say_ something?”

Teemu looks taken aback by the outburst. He shrugs, more awkward than apologetic. “There was never a good time. You were going through a lot. You never seemed ready."

“And that’s changed how?” Paul asks flatly. “Because I’m still recovering. And will be, for the rest of my life probably."

Teemu gives him a little smile. “Guess I got tired of waiting." 

He stands as well, hands in khaki pockets, bare feet on the patio and holding himself still in a way that suggests holding himself back. 

“You should have said something,” Paul tells him, and Teemu takes a small step forward. “Years ago. When I could have said yes."

“You still can."

“No," Paul says, and Teemu stops, half a pace away. “I told you, I can't. Surfing's good for me because it doesn't remind me of anything. Even I can't stand myself most days. The way my head is, I don't want to — _can't_ think about hockey or be around it, and you're not going to give up something as long as you can still have it. I know you."

“You do. But it's not giving up if I trade something I have for something better." Teemu reaches for his hand. 

Paul lets him. “This is one of my good days."

“And I’m glad I was here for it." The last half-step between them is bridged by Teemu's fingers sliding down his wrists, curling against his palms. “But I want to be there for the rest, too. We can open a restaurant, if you want, or go surfing everyday or move somewhere they've never even heard of ice. As long as it’s what you want. I don't care if you can't be as perfect as think you have to be, Paul. I just want to love you. And I will, if you let me.”

Paul lets himself be pulled into a loose embrace, hands smoothing lightly over his arms. His own fingers tighten in the fabric of Teemu's shirt, though he doesn't remember moving them there. Maybe it's the headache, or maybe it's been there all along, and the prickling at the corners of his eyes is just another sign he should have seen but missed because he didn’t want to look when he couldn’t _have_. 

“I hate you sometimes," Paul says, trusting that Teemu will know what he means, and forgive him for not being ready, not completely, even now.

Teemu presses a kiss to his forehead. “I know."


End file.
